


Hallowed

by orangeflavor



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Dirty Talk, Early season 7, Explicit Language, F/M, Possessive Jon Snow, Rough Sex, Smut, and i regret nothing, okay they're both kind of possessive but him especially, post-Battle of the Bastards, pre-parentage reveal, this is utterly utterly filthy guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 10:03:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20307679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangeflavor/pseuds/orangeflavor
Summary: “’Tell me,’ he growls, more demand than he’s ever given her – crown or not – and the feeling is heady in its fervency.Sansa stares him down, mouth a harsh frown.  She doesn’t resist his hold, doesn’t ease into it either.  ‘He says your affections for me aren’t… brotherly.’”  -Jon and Sansa.  An encounter with Lord Baelish brings the truth of their desires to light.





	Hallowed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TacitWhisky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TacitWhisky/gifts).

> For TacitWhisky. This filth might never have come to be without your encouragement. Salute. ;)

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.

Hallowed

_"'Tell me,' he growls, more demand than he's ever given her – crown or not – and the feeling is heady in its fervency._

_Sansa stares him down, mouth a harsh frown. She doesn't resist his hold, doesn't ease into it either. 'He says your affections for me aren't… brotherly.'" -_

Jon and Sansa. An encounter with Lord Baelish brings the truth of their desires to light.

* * *

"Even a simpleton could see the way he looks at you."

The smooth, dry voice of Baelish stops Jon just before he rounds the bend to the corridor hosting Sansa's chambers. His spine locks, jaw clenching with unease.

"He's my brother, Lord Baelish, and the King in the North." A short, meaningful pause, Sansa's voice lilting through the torch-lit air. "You would do well to remember that."

Baelish chuckles softly and Jon's gut churns.

"Even kings may be bastards, it seems, and with all the impropriety that comes with such a claim. Perhaps _you_ would do well to remember that, my dear."

Fists bunched at his sides, Jon rounds the corner, his shadow breaking harsh and abrupt against the torchlight.

Baelish blinks at Jon's entrance, only mildly startled, his hand falling from Sansa's shoulder, his chin rising. "Ah, Your Grace."

Jon eyes Littlefinger's retreating hand with barely contained fury.

Sansa swings steel blue eyes toward him. "Jon."

"Step away, Lord Baelish." His voice comes out low and tight. "That is the Lady of Winterfell you're assuming such familiarity with – my _sister_," he tacks on at the end, not knowing why he feels the need.

(Or perhaps knowing why but not able to admit to it.)

Baelish inclines his head in deference, but there's an air of boldness to it. "Of course, Your Grace. I wouldn't dare presume familiarity with anything of yours."

The words strike something of fury in his chest and Jon steps toward him suddenly, face a dark promise.

"Jon," Sansa says again, this time with a hand on his arm, staying him at her side.

Baelish glances at the motion with a knowing smirk, before his gaze alights on Sansa once more. "Consider my words carefully, my lady."

Something in the way his mouth forms the words seems strikingly inappropriate – brazen in its fondness, and Sansa has to tighten her grip on Jon's arm to keep him from lunging.

"Touch my sister again – even _look_ at her again – and I'll have your head, my lord, do you understand me?"

Baelish blinks steady, unfazed eyes at Jon.

"You may claim to have rode North with the Knights of the Vale for the Starks – for _loyalty_ – but 'even a simpleton' can see what you've truly come here for. And I will not have it," he snaps, sneering the familiar phrase with vitriol so acute he can taste it on his tongue.

Beside him, Sansa sucks a sharp breath between her teeth.

Baelish inclines his head once more, this time further, eyes purposely set to Jon's, letting the silence speak for him. He takes his leave before Jon can say more.

A steady silence pervades the corridor, the flicker of torchlight licking heat at their backs.

Jon turns to her. "Sansa – "

She grabs him by the wrist and yanks him after her, the strength of her ferocity stumbling him into following her, until she drags him back behind her chamber door and shuts it with finality.

"Sansa, what are you – "

"What in _seven hells_ were you thinking, Jon?"

Jon blinks at her, catching the heat in her frost-lit eyes, the flare of her nostrils, the heavy rise and fall of her chest.

"You can't just _threaten_ the Lord Protector of the Vale," she says on a near shriek. She stops, takes a moment, hands smoothing over imaginary wrinkles in her skirt, before she looks back up at him.

Jon narrows his eyes, the anger instant and familiar. "You can't be serious."

She scoffs, stalking off to the side and crossing her arms. "I'm being perfectly serious."

"That man is _poison_, Sansa."

"And you think I don't know it?"

"I think you're playing too close to the flame."

She huffs her incredulity, arms uncrossing as she stalks back to him. "And I think _you're_ playing right into his hands."

He stops, rears back. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She seems to hesitate a moment, mouth opening and then closing.

He steps closer. "Sansa." It comes out more like a warning than a plead, and he can see the way her shoulders straighten at the tone. "What is he saying?"

She looks off to the wall. "Nothing I can't turn around – so long as you stop playing the hero with me and stop – " She bites the words off, holds her lip between her teeth, eyes drifting cautiously back to his.

His chest hums with his frustration as he steps even closer, close enough to reach out and grasp her if he wanted.

(_If he wanted_.)

"Stop what?"

More damnable silence.

Jon runs a hand through his hair roughly, his jaw tight with aggravation. "What is he saying, Sansa?"

She seems almost ready to speak it, and then something passes over her face that he can't recognize and she's stepping back, out of his proximity, head shaking, and he can't stop himself. He grabs for her, catching her by the arms and dragging her back against him.

He's just so tired of this quiet, violent game between them.

"Tell me," he growls, more demand than he's ever given her – crown or not – and the feeling is heady in its fervency.

Sansa stares him down, mouth a harsh frown. She doesn't resist his hold, doesn't ease into it either. "He says your affections for me aren't… brotherly."

Distantly, he understands that it's guilt he should be feeling, perhaps regret, maybe even indignation if it weren't true.

And that's the rub.

Because it is true.

Somehow, it's only keen anticipation that fills him, and were he a better man, he'd stop right now – this very instant – this exact moment when he remembers he's never been particularly good at pretenses. So why should he start now?

(But were he a better man he would have never deemed to want what he shouldn't in the first place – namely _her_.)

Jon sucks a breath through his teeth, eyes glancing down to her mouth for a single, illuminating moment, and he almost curses himself, because when he looks back up there's the imperceptible widening of her eyes and the slow unfurrowing of her brow.

He pulls her tighter to him. "What else?" he bites out, because fury is easier, fury is an acceptable smokescreen. And he finds that wrath is an effortless cover for longing.

(He doesn't let himself think too long on why that is.)

"Jon."

"What else?" he hisses out, suddenly aflame, and he isn't sure whether it's ire or desire that truly lights his bones this time.

Sansa squirms in his grasp. "This is ridiculous. You aren't… Jon, listen to me."

But she isn't looking him in the eye, and her struggle is half-hearted at best. If he looks closely, he'll be able to see the flutter of her pulse beneath her milk-white throat, and the sudden flick of her tongue wetting her lips, and the tight curl of her shaking fists at his chest.

But he can't. He's too busy watching the way the torchlight catches along her collar bone above the modest cut of her dress. "What else?" he rasps out, tongue flicking out to wet his lips, and he suddenly realizes this was a mistake, a mistake he can't find in himself to undo, and he's glancing back to her eyes, catching the sharp cut of her blue irises against his drowning grey ones.

Sansa arches against his hold unconsciously. "Nothing worth repeating," she grinds out.

Jon scoffs, stepping into her. She stumbles back with the motion and he follows. "That can't be it. Tell me. Tell me what depraved things Lord Baelish has whispered in your ear about me." It's a challenge, he knows, and even still, he's alight with excitement at the prospect of such words staining her lips. His cock stirs even at the thought, his control wavering dangerously as he holds her, presses into her, steps her slowly back to the bed.

He watches as something steels in her gaze and she stops her backward tread, mouth firming into a thin line.

She's always been rather good at seeing through his pretenses after all.

"He says it's your bastard blood that gives you such unnatural cravings."

Jon barks a laugh, the fervor high and vibrant in his tone. It overtakes him. "My bastard blood, huh?" His hands flex along her arms, sliding lower, slipping toward her waist with more surety than he's ever touched her with. He's delirious with it suddenly – this heady need, this quaking wrath, and he thinks he can't be the only one. He thinks this because she doesn't voice her protest when his fingers wrap around her waist in an intimacy too pointed to be anything but brotherly. And even still. Even still he remembers the way Baelish had so easily touched her, so easily swept her into his confidence, and the bile is sharp and instant at the back of his tongue, his anger flaring once more, his fingers gripping at her waist like a threat. "I suppose that must be what you two speak of when you're busy whispering conspiratorially behind my back, when you're busy plotting."

Sansa pushes at his chest, her outrage splashing along her cheeks. "How dare you."

Jon's fingers curl into the fabric of her dress, holding her flush against him. "I'm not blind, Sansa. And I'm not stupid. Yours is as good a claim as mine, even more so, and you've let a snake to your bed. How can I not dare?"

She bares her teeth, her wrathful hiss breaking against the air between them like a deadly promise. "I have _never_ – "

"Never what? Never entertained the idea? Never let him take his liberties with you?" His hands are trembling fiercely at her sides, his chest heaving with his anger. Just the thought, just the bare utterance of such a thing – the image of anyone's hands, Littlefinger's especially, alighting her skin – has him seeing red.

Sansa's eyes narrow dangerously. "You truly are a bastard, aren't you?"

The snarl that leaves him has her mouth parting, her throat flexing beneath a soft whine, and he wants to hear it again suddenly – _madly_. He wants to catch the hitch of her breath between his teeth, wants to drag his tongue long and slow against that pale, untouched throat until she whines low and breathless at his ear.

He wants it so violently he's shaking with it.

(It's such a pretty little picture. The honor-bound illegitimate son, the lady sister at his side.)

And this is where he stops pretending.

"Aye, I'm a bastard," he breathes just above her own mouth, walking her back until her legs hit the bed.

Sansa stares him down with a heat that has him hardening instantly.

"Wouldn't want to disappoint, now, would I?" he whispers lowly, like a threat, like a promise he's spent too long trying not to break.

And here's the truth:

She never says no.

She never stays his hand. She never does anything but mold into his embrace – even when she's glaring at him. Even when she's holding the cut of her words behind a practiced tongue.

Sansa licks her lips, ignoring the way he stares at her mouth. "Jon." There's still anger lining her tone, still bite behind her words.

Jon revels in it.

He can't be the only one.

He just _can't_.

He slips a hand boldly up her side, his thumb brushing the edge of her breast so barely it could be called a mistake, before his fingers sweep languidly along her collarbone – a thrum of possessiveness to the motion. "Should I show you how much of a bastard I can be? Should I prove him right?"

Sansa gasps against him, body rocking into his unconsciously even as her nails dig into his arms with her indignation, and he presses his hips to hers, his desire apparent.

She doesn't quite collar the moan that leaves her when she bites down on her lip.

A bastard he may be, but she's the one gripping him to her. She's the one not letting go.

It sets his skin ablaze, his body racked with an instant heat, a coil of desire anchoring low and sharp in his gut. "Sansa," he says on a dangerous exhale, the hand along her chest dragging up her throat to grip her jaw in his haze. His hold is firm and unrelenting, his fingers digging into her skin. He brushes a thumb along her parted lips, eyes trained to the motion. He pants raggedly above her mouth. "You never quite told me what it is Baelish accused me of – what vile thoughts I must entertain." Another swipe of his thumb.

Sansa drags a heated breath through her lungs, chin tilting high.

It's an easy guilt to bear, he thinks – this desire, this shameful need. Easier now that he can taste her air.

Jon licks his lips, his thumb pressing harder at her bottom lip, the edge of her teeth grazing his skin – and her tongue – _her tongue_, right there –

Jon groans, dipping his thumb just past her parted mouth, feeling the wet heat of her breath splashing across his skin. "Or are you going to tell me that ladies don't repeat such filth? That this prim and proper mouth of yours couldn't even fathom such obscenity?"

Something darkens in Sansa's eyes, a sharp clarity – a cold cut of blue in the shadows of her chamber, and – instantly – Jon knows there is no going back now.

Slow and sure, with her eyes never leaving his, Sansa's tongue presses to the pad of his thumb at her mouth, her lips parting in invitation. She never blinks.

The groan that leaves him staggers him against her, his hips bucking into hers unconsciously as he dips his thumb into the heat of her mouth.

She takes his thumb between her lips, curling her tongue around his knuckle and sucking long and slow, drawing back until she releases him with a dull pop.

He's staring at her wet mouth, transfixed, panting, delirious with need. "Sansa," he chokes out.

"He told me that bastards take what they want."

It's all the confirmation he needs.

The hand along her hip moves to the laces of her dress, tugging impatiently.

Sansa's hands slink deep into his hair as she moves her mouth to his cheek, her breath hot and wet at the shell of his ear. "He told me that you'd part my legs without hesitation – that you'd take your fill again and again. He told me that you'd ruin me for any other man – mark me in ways too horrid to say."

He's frantic now, tearing at the material of her dress.

"He told me you'd fuck me without restraint."

Jon yanks the loosened material of her dress from her shoulder, hauling it down, mouth setting to her bared shoulder with a frantic bite.

Sansa throws her head back, a keening moan breaking from her lips.

In a single, furious swipe, he drags the dress from her, leaving her in her sleeveless shift. She steps from the fabric easily, and then her hands are pulling at his jerkin, helping him loosen it, dragging it over his head and then doing the same with his tunic. His hands still halfway through unlacing his breeches, his cock straining against the fabric, when she grabs him by the face, leveling her gaze to his, her chest rising and falling so quickly he's lightheaded at the motion.

"He told me you'd touch me in places no brother has a right to touch their sister."

It overtakes him – this insanity, this desperation so stark and vibrant it lights his tongue with delirium when he kisses her, hard and needy and _wrong_. So wrong it's got him crashing into her, hands dug into her hair, teeth gnashing against hers, tongue hot and wet in her mouth as he falls into her, as he collapses them to the bed, a fumbling mess of limbs and gasps and yes, please gods, _yes_.

He's already rucking up her shift, already palming at her thigh, shoving his hips so roughly between hers the bed creaks beneath the strain.

"Tell me to stop," he pants against her bruised lips, licking at them like a starved wolf.

Sansa arches against him, one hand dug into his hair, the other fisting in the bedding at her head. "Why?" she pants just as brokenly.

Jon snarls into her mouth, biting down on her lip, rutting into her, his cock achingly hard against the slip of her smallclothes. "Tell me to stop," he demands again, this time harsher – this time with the kind of desperation that has him bracing his forehead to hers, panting at her mouth, gripping at her hips with bruising fingers.

She darts her tongue out to taste him, licking into him, up along the roof of his mouth and slowly back out. "And if I don't?"

Jon wraps a hand around her throat, urging her face to the side, his teeth sinking into the skin just below her ear. She keens at the brutal swipe of his tongue along her sweat-soaked skin.

He releases her neck with a hiss, fingers scrambling for her smallclothes, dragging them down past her knees as she raises her hips instinctively, breaking the tie along one side, letting them settle around a lone ankle, forgotten.

"Then you cannot blame me for not being gentle," he answers her, teeth grazing her ear.

Her voice catches in her throat, arms sliding around his shoulders to keep him to her.

His fingers are dipping into her cunt so abruptly and unexpectedly that she arches off the bed like a strung bow, mouth parting in a silent cry.

"_Fuck_, Sansa," Jon groans into her neck, fingers sliding out just enough to plunge back in, swift and brutal. Again and again, without mercy. "You're so fucking wet for me."

"Yes," she hisses, tongue flicking out against his ear.

Jon growls into her skin, fucking her harder with his fingers. "Baelish and all his little whores couldn't imagine the things I want to do to you."

Sansa cries out, a broken sob catching in her throat, nails digging into his shoulder blades, his scalp.

Jon pushes his cock into the mattress for some relief, for _any_ kind of relief, aching and tight and breathless. "Gods, Sansa, I need – fuck, I need to taste you."

And then he's dragging his body down the length of her, mouth setting openmouthed kisses over her shoulders, her collarbone, along her breasts and stomach through the material of her shift, too impatient to pull it from her, his hand slipping from between her legs to push the shift up, bunching it at her waist frantically.

Before she can even breathe his name, before she can even process the pressure of his palms urging her thighs apart, Jon buries his face between her legs and swipes his tongue slowly up her soaking cunt, harsh and firm and greedy. He moans into her with abandon, desperate to be deeper, to have her rutting against his mouth like an animal.

"Oh, _gods_, Jon – _seven hells_ what are you – I can't, I can't – nngh, _Jon_," she hisses, one hand latching onto his head instinctively.

Jon's hips jerk at the break in her composure, at the breathless grunts leaving her.

He opens his mouth over her cunt, dragging his tongue up and down her slit, sucking at her folds, her clit, licking her dripping cunt sloppily, messily, moaning into her heat with a hunger that shakes her, rutting into the bed in time to his licks, eating her out like a man absolutely fucking _starved_, her slickness coating his lips and chin, his beard wet with her juices.

He tongue fucks her so roughly, so sharp and hard and ravenous that her hips are arching up off the bed, chasing the heat of his mouth, grinding down on his tongue, the heavy, ragged sound of his breathing lost beneath the gush of her slickness, his fingers digging into her hips, dragging her into him, keeping her cunt tight against his mouth, his tongue, his wet fucking tongue, licking her up with a deep-seated groan, drowning in her harsh pants, so fucking lost in her, so absolutely soaked from her dripping cunt, the taste of her, that heady, slick taste of her and he can't get enough, can't fuck her deep enough with his tongue, and so he dips two fingers into her heat, groaning at the broken sob that drags from her lips, curling his fingers tight and sharp, anchoring her through the violent shudder that racks her, teeth catching on her clit, pushing deeper, eating her out so loudly and obscenely he thinks he may just cum from the sounds as she fucks his mouth, the twist of her fingers in his hair, the tremble of her thighs at his ears, the push of her hips against his mouth, the mindless, relentless thrust of her cunt against his tongue as she moans her ecstasy, and he has to look up at her, has to watch her fucking his mouth, wild and shameless and so fucking wet he's _drowning_ in her.

He has to see if she's watching as her brother eats her cunt with a hunger so savage he could cum into the bedsheets right there.

Jon catches her gaze through the dark fringe of his curls, sharp and brilliant and intent on his, her chest rising and falling heavily, her lips swollen from his kisses, and he watches as her head falls back against the pillow, her hips arching higher, angling off the bed, and the sheets are soaked beneath her, and yet somehow, through the haze of his own mindless moans, and the broken, breathless whines spilling from her mouth, and the slick, loud flush of his tongue along her cunt, over and over – he hears it.

A murmur at first – hesitant, low. And then louder, surer, until he recognizes the sharp edges of her voice, her begging, her fervent commands.

"Yes, just like that. Just… oh fuck – _fuck_, lick me up – _yes_." A desperate groan leaves her as she curls her fingers in his hair, grinding against his mouth shamelessly, and he's unbearably harder at the indecency he's dragged from her lips with his tongue. "Fuck me with that tongue, come on, nngh. Harder. _Harder_, Jon, come on – ah! Just like that, just like… yes, so fucking good. That's it. That's it – nggh. Come on. _Fuck me like the bastard you are."_

Jon stops abruptly, his breathing ragged, fingers buried in her cunt, coated in her juices. Sansa howls at the interruption, arching impossibly sharp, clawing at his scalp, her gaze whipping down to his. "What – " she pants, eyes unfocused, cheeks flushed. "What are you – "

She blinks down at him, seeming to realize what she's said, and Jon stares at her, still impossibly hard, still ready to finish her off with the brutal swipe of his tongue against her sodden cunt, until he catches the firm press of her lips, the sharp glint in her eye as she keeps her heated gaze to his, the way she pants without shame, without regret.

She won't take it back.

And suddenly – blindingly – Jon realizes that he doesn't want her to.

Something splinters in Jon, clawing its way out his throat, thrumming dangerously through his veins. He slips from her, ignoring her barren whimper at his absence. His hands fumble for the half-done laces of his breeches, dragging them down his thighs, his cock springing free, already seeping at the tip, already harder than he's ever been. "Come here," he snarls, one hand hooking around her ankle and dragging her down the bed.

Sansa yelps at the jarring motion, moving to rise, but he's grabbing at her shift, yanking it up and over her shoulders, along her arms, her hair catching in the material before he throws it aside, freeing her, breath hissed through her clenched teeth. And then his mouth is on her breast, smearing her slick over her skin, teeth scraping a nipple so sharply she cries out before he clamps down on her, sucking eagerly, his other hand palming at her other breast roughly. There is no forgiveness in his touch, no mercy behind his tongue. Her whines only grow louder.

"Jon," she pants, tugging at his hair.

He moans long and low along her breast, his tongue swirling over her nipple once, twice, almost languidly, before releasing her, and she has a moment to catch her breath, reaching for him, but he only shoves her hands away, grabbing at her thighs.

His hands dig into her hips with a savage need as he tugs her, turning her to flip over, one of her calves dragged over by his calloused palm. He's urging her, guiding her, steadying her as she stumbles along her knees, her hands bracing against the sweat-drenched sheets, and it's a graceless claw of limbs as he yanks her back against his cock, her palms slipping along the bedding, the wet slap of their skin jarringly loud in the room, his following groan drowning out the blood rushing in his ears.

Distantly, he recognizes how pliant she is in his hands, how eager her moans, how she lets him touch her with all the ferocity he's denied himself these many moons.

He knows now – even if she won't say it – he knows now he isn't the only one.

Jon winds one hand around her hip, and then further, fingers fumbling for her clit, and Sansa bites off a shriek as he pinches the nub, bucking into her from behind. She pushes back into him seamlessly, tilting her head back so that her sweat-soaked hair catches along the back of her neck, spilling over her other shoulder.

"Fuck you like a bastard, huh?" he growls along her spine, fingers slick along her folds, bending over her with a fierce singlemindedness that blacks out any other thought but _heat_ and _wet_ and _her_. Jon drags a greedy palm down the length of her back, curving over her ass, kneading the flesh, fingers bruising as he bites down on her shoulder blade.

Sansa cries out, arching against him, pushing her sodden cunt into his hand.

"You like that, don't you?" His cock slides against her folds, covered in her slickness, achingly hard, so fucking hard it's near painful. He pushes the tip into the heat of her cunt, a sharp breath sucked between his teeth. And then she releases a huff of impatience, reaching between them to wrap her delicate fingers around the rest of him, hurriedly guiding him into her dripping cunt.

Jon releases a low, shuddering groan, buried suddenly and deeply inside her, his teeth catching along her spine. "Oh _fuck_, Sansa, you're so fucking tight, so – fuck, I'm gonna – I need to – " He pulls nearly completely out, a heated hiss breaking through his barred teeth, before plunging back in, slamming into her so hard she rocks with it, a soft gasp scraping out of her lungs. He places a hand along her back and pushes her down, one of his knees nudging hers apart until she falls near flat to the furs, braced on her elbows, his other hand trapped between her cunt and the bed. He grinds into her, even deeper than before, rubbing at her clit desperately.

Sansa pants his name – a wet exhale breaking against the pillow by her face.

"You like a bastard between your legs, don't you?" he growls above her, lowering himself until his chest is pressed flush against her back. "How long have you wanted to fuck your brother, hmm?" he gets out on a choked gasp, hips jerking into hers, his weight pressing her into the furs.

"Fuck you," she spits, glancing over her shoulder, gaze heated and dark.

Jon bites down on her shoulder, silencing her but for her moans. "That's it. Let me hear you moan for me. Let me hear you panting like a bitch in heat for your bastard brother's cock."

In a pique of indignant fury, Sansa pushes uselessly back with her weight on her elbows, even as she arches into him, even as she sucks her lip tightly between her teeth and moans.

Jon drives into her with a punishing pace, his cock slamming into her slick cunt as he rubs at her clit, his hand still caught between her body and the bed. "So fucking wet for me, Sansa. So fucking wet for your bastard brother. Is this what you wanted? Huh? You wanted my filthy fucking cock buried in that tight little cunt of yours, that pretty little highborn cunt – so fucking full of my cock, so fucking – _gods_, so fucking – nggh – only me, Sansa, you hear me? Only me. Only I can _fuck_ you like this." Jon winds a hand around her throat, fingers clawing up her jaw, searching for the wet heat of her mouth, and his weight bears down on her fully, pressing her into the bed, into his fingers, the pool of her slickness drenching the bed and his hand alike, and it's like he can taste her again, his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth with his moan. Two of his fingers curl over her lip, her ragged pants hot against his flesh, and she curves her tongue around his fingers instinctively, taking them into her mouth.

He fucks her even harder, the groan dragging from him, his teeth sinking into her shoulder, as he nearly cums right then. "Gods, yes, that's it. That's it, Sansa. Bet you'd take my cock between those pretty wet lips just as eagerly. Bet you'd – _oh fuck_ – " A breathless grunt escapes him when she sucks that much harder on his fingers. He drags a struggling breath through his lungs, dips his tongue to the mark of his bite at her shoulder. "Bet you'd suck me off until I came down your throat."

She hums around his fingers, her cunt drenching his other hand, and he can feel her tightening around his cock, his pace ruthless. "That's it, Sansa. Louder for me. Let them hear you. Let them know how you let your bastard brother fuck you. Let them know how you let me cum inside you – _like a bastard would_. Come on, let them know how that pretty little highborn cunt is _mine_, how absolutely fucking soaked you are for me. _Louder_. I want them to hear you when I cum inside that tight fucking cunt of yours."

Sansa ruts against his hand, her tongue sliding between his fingers with every thrust of his cock inside her.

"Come on, Sansa. Gods, you're so tight, so wet – _so fucking wet_ – letting me fuck you like this while you suck me off – just like a proper whore – _fuck_ – " The graze of her teeth along his fingers is warning and promise in equal measure, and he can't stop the rush any longer, can't stop it even if he tried. "I want you to cum for me. I want you to cum around your brother's cock. I want to hear you scream when I spill inside you, when I _fuck you like the bastard I am_," he snarls at her ear, rubbing out an orgasm from her so hard and violent she actually screams around his fingers in her mouth, bucking back against him viciously, one hand gripping the pillow between white knuckles while the other reaches back for him blindly, nails digging into his hip, holding him to her, buried inside her so deep his vision inks black for a terrifyingly delicious moment, and then he's cumming with a roar, his breath hot and choked against her hair, panted out in broken grunts as he spills and spills and spills, fucking her even still, feeling the slick, hot gush of his seed seeping from her cunt as his thrusts even out, slowing with his exhaustion, until it becomes a languid, breathless rut against her.

Sansa's moan is long and low, her voice hoarse. She squirms beneath his crushing weight and Jon barely has the sense after such a furious orgasm to slide off of her, his fingers slipping from her mouth beneath a trail of saliva, and he feels her jerk and shudder when his other fingers pulls away from her sensitive nub, dragging her wetness over her hip as his hand retreats.

Jon's chest heaves, his breathing sharp and ragged as he blinks back to clarity. He stares up at the canopy of her bed, the bed their honorable lord father and her respectable lady mother used to sleep in. The bed he's now defiled beyond repair.

He turns his head to watch her, finds her staring steadily at him, her cheek pressed to the sweat soaked pillow, her copper hair plastered to her neck and back. She's breathing ragged as well, cheeks flushed, fingers curling into the furs. She never looks away.

(She never has, he realizes belatedly.)

Something startlingly like possession flares in his gut and he reaches for her, fists a hand in her hair as he drags her mouth to his, taking it roughly, licking into her mouth with a selfish sort of need. He breaks away panting, eyes fluttering open to watch her. He keeps his fist in her hair, his mouth close to hers.

"Baelish doesn't touch you again, understand?" he breathes lowly.

Sansa winds a hand up his jaw, curving her body into his, and there's something covetous about the way she splays her hand over his sweat-drenched throat.

"He doesn't touch _this_ again," she demands instead, the promising flex of her fingers along his neck all he needs to understand.

_This_.

Them.

Baelish has no place here, after all– in this hallowed space between them.

Jon blinks at her hiss, at the heat behind her words.

But he should have known what it meant to take a wolf to bed.

He nods, eyes never leaving hers. "Aye," he agrees, pressing his mouth back to hers, kissing her hard and slow, shifting over her, trapping her beneath his weight, one hand already hitching her thigh up around his hips.

In the end, Jon realizes that Baelish was wrong.

He swallows her moan with a greedy mouth.

He was wrong, because Jon would do much, much worse.


End file.
